


Un-Invincible

by The_Friendliest_Freak



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Hank McCoy, Bisexual Remy LeBeau, Body Horror, Charles Xavier Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, F/M, Hank McCoy is So Done, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Logan is a Softie (X-Men), M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Ororo Munroe is a Good Friend, Protective Remy LeBeau, Sad with a Happy Ending, Scott Summers Being an Asshole, Self-Hatred, Self-Indulgent, Self-Sacrifice, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:14:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Friendliest_Freak/pseuds/The_Friendliest_Freak
Summary: After being brutally interrogated for several weeks and being trapped in a furnace for 12 hours, Wolverine finally makes it back to the X-Mansion, where everything'll go back to normal. As soon as he walks through those doors, he'll play it off like nothing occurred. He's the best at it.As it turns out, having 105 pounds of a heat conductor grafted to your skeleton doesn't go well with long intervals in extremely high temperatures; Logan's finding that the aftermath of the incident is a lot harder to hide (and even harder to heal from) than anticipated.(Comments are super appreciated! Let me know your thoughts - it motivates me to become a better writer)
Relationships: Logan/Ororo Munroe, Remy LeBeau/Logan (X-Men)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 91





	1. Nihilist Under Narcotics

“What do you mean ‘ _he hasn’t been talking_ ’?” barked Keith Hibbert to his armour-plated goons as he stormed through the double doors. His feet stomped against the sangria tiled floor.

  
Wolverine heard the doors slam shut, and struggled to suppress a delirious giggle at the fat, pin-stripe-suit-wearing Hoser’s angry outburst. The blood had rushed to his skull a good few days ago, and now it felt like his brain was rapidly dissolving into the red stuff flooding his cranium, as he idly spun anti-clockwise with that blasted rope tied around his ankles and attached to a surprisingly sturdy yet small hook stuck in the peeling, charcoal-coloured ceiling (matching the walls).  
Granted, he also couldn’t think straight because his asshat-captors had him routinely pumped up with enough drugs to kill a large animal in less time than it takes to say _‘I’m not telling you anything about where the X-Men are based, now let me fucking go’_.

  
His uniform was in tatters. The once-bright yellow hue now looked like a damp sandstone, and he was missing his right glove and left boot. The mask had been torn off when he first woke up in the abandoned factory he still was trapped in. Holes peppered the fabric in random places, and there was an ambiguous stain or two or three that he didn’t remember the cause of, or what they were (he didn’t really want to know).  
He writhed a little, trying to shift the chains around his sore elbows a few precious centimetres lower before Hibbert got less than a metre near him; his world spun, and he quelled the bewildered shout that he felt build up in his dry throat, and clamped his jaw shut. He couldn’t say anything. He _couldn’t_ say anything.

  
Wolverine hadn’t gotten any kind of sustenance in...he couldn’t really tell, the room he was primarily being held in had no windows, and no noise from outside slipped in; and he could feel the starvation and dehydration untangling the meaty mess in his noggin like a ball of yarn, and he’d been swallowing down whatever saliva that would build up in his parched mouth in a useless attempt of relief - until two days ago; when, in his disorientated, exhausted, confused state, he came up with an idea.  
Pain suddenly exploded across his scalp and his view melted into itself as the room became a blurry mess. He screwed his eyes shut, whatever was left of his brain by this point bouncing against the inside of his skull.

  
When he opened his eyes, he was looking up (or down, he honestly couldn’t tell) at the pale, round, humorously furious face of Keith Hibbert, whom he’d momentarily and completely forgotten had existed. Hibbert scowled and waved his hand across Wolverine’s face in an attempt to get his attention. He idly watched the large, white hand go from left to right, from right to left, with long black lines plastered to his palm.

‘ ** _Hairs_** ’, a voice at the back of his head whispered with an echo of numb horror as Wolverine continued to sway, ‘ _They’re **my** hairs. That asshole grabbed me by **my** hair_’.

  
“Okay, _Tom Thumb_ -” Hibbert snapped, grabbing the ends of Wolverine’s hair and yanking downward so that he was at eye level “I don’t know _what_ you’re playing at here. You don’t cooperate, you get hurt, we’ve made _sure_ you learned that...” Wolverine groggily recognised the stench of greasy chargrilled beef wafting off his words “...you said it yourself that you’re _useless_ as ransom, so the only way out of this, _mutant scum_ , is to tell us where they are.”

  
Slowly, Wolverine blinked. Blinked again. His eyes were glazed, and a small stupefied smile flickered on his lips. He knew he was dangerously blitzed, and some half-asleep part of him seethed with loathing at the utter lack of control, but the potent junk running through his system lay thick and heavy on his nerves like a smothering quilt.  
Keith’s face reddened. He looked like a beetroot. A beetroot with a silly blond toupee.

Wolverine snickered.

  
Suddenly, his vision swam, dull colours bled into and out of each other like watercolour paint except the paper was on fire and the artist had been harshly slapped across the face while roped to the ceiling. His cheek stung.

  
On the bright side, Hibbert had let go of his hair.

Unfortunately, Wolverine was now spinning around the room like a goddamn pendulum. The walls and floor and ceiling were folding in on each other, and his stomach twisted and churned, his throat shrivelled - God, it felt like it was shedding like a lizard - he needed to swallow. He needed to swallow, or he’d vomit. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t - he had to be patient. The act of doing what he needed to do...it’d be gratifying, for one thing; but it might piss Keith off enough to get rid of him.  
Wolverine felt the rope stop dead with a strong tug. His captor’s fugly face swam into view, a nonchalant sneer plastered on his sweaty, pale mug; the pigeon’s goons surrounded the room like some kind of heavily-armoured fence. The annoying sound of those keeners chuckling seemed to wake him up a little.  
Wolverine glared straight into the beady eyes of the pig on two legs and spat at him.  
A cry followed, a squawk of disgust, from both Hibbert and his minions as Keith tumbled back onto his ass, using his pin-striped sleeve to mop up the glob of un-swallowed saliva; and he let go of the rope, sending Wolverine spinning again.

  
The colours were melting again, sickeningly, and his mouth was sorely dry, but by Thor it had been so damn worth it. His brain felt like it had finally mollified, like the one thing keeping it together was the notion of making that asswipe scream like a little kid.  
Wolverine laughed like a madman, sometimes being interrupted by a sputtering cough before starting back up again, fresh blood trickling down his chin going completely unnoticed.  
He was out of his head.  
Hours, days, weeks, months, perhaps years - he didn't know! - of being narcotized until he was too dopey to recognise his hands as his own, of being slapped across the face until it drew blood, of being constantly interrogated time and time and time again...it was so flaming worth it.  
He was stuck in another coughing fit when his body crunched into the floor, neck snapping forward. A heavy weight dropped onto the small of his back - presumably a boot, and arms pinned down his limbs. His body wracked with a sudden shiver when his face pressed against the tiles. They’d cut the rope.

  
“ **Take him to the furnace** ,” ordered Hibbert from out of his vision “Even if the other X-Men did come for you, Wolverine, despite your claims - they surely won’t recognise you once we’re done with you.”


	2. Logan's Inferno

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Heavy gore incoming

Imagine - if you will - Hell.  
Like a very stereotypical Hell. The kind of Hell in which you’d see horned midgets prancing around, looking like sentient chorizo. That kind of Hell.  
That is what _The Furnace_ looked like around 11 hours after being activated; and the only midget in sight at that time mark was a screaming, scorching man snatching at his smouldering skin as it melted off him.  
The drugs had worn off an hour after he was dropped in.  
His eyesight had gone 4 hours after that.  
The burial garment of whatever was left of his costume had either singed away or melted miserably into his flesh, making him almost one with that uniform he held so dear.

The Furnace itself was once a large smelting room for re-using metal by melting it down, but after the factory was closed due to an accident and left to rot - eventually being illegally repurposed by Keith Hibbert and his merry band of fucklets as an ‘ _interrogation den_ ’ where they’d routinely kidnap mutants to catechize on important info about mutant rebellion groups - it had been _delightfully_ reconstructed into a labyrinthian hellscape that Daedalus would kill _(again)_ for. With the many metal walls veined throughout, it was impossible to determine how far The Furnace stretched - all of the barricades were identical, and all of them **burned** to the touch.

Wolverine slammed straight into another unforgiving wall. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t smell anything except thick smoke that stuck to the back of his throat, he couldn’t hear _anything_ but the scorchingly-loud crackling and blazing and licking of the flames and his screams echoing off of the infinite perimeter. Any attempts to slash through the walls resulted in white-hot pain striking up his claws and searing his nerves.  
His knees gave out right in front of another wall. With a strangled roar, he thumped his fists against the barrier, over, and _over_ , **and _over_**.  
As if that would help.

All-too-familiar rage was bubbling up inside him. The narcotics that had been smothering it were burning away, and they’d left a painful stain that made the internalised inferno writhe, made it rear its disgusting head towards the flames, towards the fire, towards the sorry state that it found Wolverine in. It took its time. Prodded the throbbing heart with its claws, simmered under the inflamed skin and left the aching muscles contracting violently, scratched at the sore throat and tore from it an animalistic screech that could only belong to it.  
It punctured the eyeball and fractured the pupil, its ebon rupturing and devouring the iris and sclera until all that remained was a single white dot in each optic.

Wolverine blacked out, the _rotter_ he’d formed as a _bastion_ all those years ago - the _weapon_ , the _**animal**_ \- taking the wheel.

* * *

The berserker tore through The Furnace as if the labyrinth had been constructed from crepe paper. Immense heat and the smouldering metal under its feet just compounded to the fuming frenzy of the manufactured force of nature that exploded out of that Hell on Earth, like it was the untamed parasitical scum clawing out of its molten underbelly.

Any guards outside or further on didn’t hear it before it was too late, what was left of those who got in its way were trifling stains sticking to its claws or damp morsels wrenched between the teeth. Limbs were separated from their owners and torn to shreds or jammed down the victim’s throat, snapping back and disjointing teeth - if not sometimes making them crunch out of the gums and clatter to the ground like white, broken quarters.

It splintered open another unrecognisable foe’s cranium and sunk its teeth into the cervical, almost-black blood spurting out like a geyser, wetly splatting on the pale skin of the corpse-to-be. The body writhed like a slug in salt before going limp, after which it was dropped and stepped over like nothing.  
A thick bullet cracked into the lumbar curve of the savage; a jarring, raspy clack wrenched out of the throat as its head snapped towards the attacker - scrawny and sweaty, holding the gun as far away from him as possible, as if it were infected.  
The demon lunged at the bony assailant and plunged its claws into the area beneath the clavicle, getting a scream in response - it screamed back, spittle flecked with blood flicking onto the face - as it pinned him down on the cold floor, yanking its left arm out of the chest and using it to wrench the man’s jaw from his face with a ‘ _ **CRUNCH!**_ ’ and a shrill scream, before forcing it into the middle of the forehead - dark crimson surging from the wound - and digging its right hand deeper into the chest before the body finally stopped moving.

The unhinged wretch torrefied through the rest of the facility, until the blood boiling in its veins was rain droplets compared to what it was inundated in.

In the entrance room, hiding behind what was once an L-shaped receptionist’s desk that stood three metres away from the exit, Keith Hibbert heard the crashing and caterwauling of his guards jumbled with the infernal roars of the devil and the sound of shattering bones, and fumbled for the gun in his shabby desk of drawers - not a regular gun, but a tranquiliser, hooked up with what his supplier told him was ‘ _stuff that’ll **fuck up** even the **strongest** mutie_’. His supplier had neglected to tell him exactly what it did, but Hibbert was willing to take risks as the disquieting plausibility of impending expiry built up in him. The ceiling fan hummed.  
With his back pressed to the open end of the desk, he checked if the gun was loaded, once, twice, thrice, before peeking around the edge towards the door. If he could knock the beast unconscious, that’d give him enough time to break the barricaded exit door open, leading to a quick, well-earned escape. He could hire new employees, goons were expendable. He’d call the cops after he left, tell them an _unhinged mutant_ had _slaughtered_ his entire work staff and almost him, despite the fact that Hibbert - as a _good acquaintance_ of the Friends of Humanity charity’s co-founder - had only wanted to help the poor soul, and get information on one of the most dangerous mutant groups. The Justice System would buy that - they wouldn’t question the ropes, chains, medicaments, or anything else - they’d see it all as necessary when handling mutants, and they’d be right.  
Keith smiled at the thought - a quick and easy getaway, an absolutely _genius_ plan - as he stretched his neck to get a look at the entrance door.

**It was open.**

Stifling a shriek, he slammed back against the desk and gripped the gun with his clammy hands, eyes wide and beginning to brim with tears, teeth grinding together. The heavy stench of metal drizzled with blood clung to the room’s atmosphere.  
A low, guttural growl echoed from his blindspot, somewhere behind the false safety of the desk. Quiet, muffled footsteps, slowly, slowly tapping out.  
Getting louder. _Louder_. The sound of raspy, laboured breathing and the footsteps were ringing in his ears.  
Getting louder. _Louder. **Louder.**_ Check the gun - loaded. Getting louder. _Louder. **Closer. Closer-**_

Squealing, Hibbert stood up and fired.


	3. Dead Men Tell No Tales

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to current circumstances, this chapter is rather short.  
> Apologies.

The dart drove into the freak’s frontal lobe, and it stumbled back, crumpled to the chill concrete floor.

Almost half a minute passed before Keith shakily lowered his weapon, wide-eyed and dripping in sweat. The body was small, ribs poking out that weren’t there when the mutant was first taken, black hair charred; blotches of shrivelled and inflamed skin mingling with blood, stark against the rest - a dull sand with the flush of pyrexia.  
Hibbert stared at the body, slowly pocketing the gun. He straightened, wiped the sweat off his face, and chuckled. It was so _easy_. He’d have to hire better goons, those ones couldn’t take down some pint-sized _mutie_.  
With a smirk smugly settling on his red face, he turned away from the body and strolled over to the exit door. A crowbar leant on the frame. He picked it up, and jammed it in between the gap, yanking it this way and that until the doors swung open.  
Hibbert wiped the sweat from his brow again, a sigh of immense relief leaving him-

“ _ **AUWGHH-!**_ ” he squawked, pain exploding in his chest. His whole body spasmed, head dropped - six metal talons stuck out from his torso, shredded remnants of his internal organs dripping gore clinging to the impalement.  
Suddenly, the claws drew back. Hibbert staggered, trembling hands moving to the gaping hole in his chest before a fist cracked him in the jaw, sending him to the ground.

Keith curled up into a ball, pathetic pleas mingled with choking sounds, red spittle periodically spraying out of his mouth; bitter tears staining the concrete.

“... _please_ …” he warbled, staring bug-eyed as the horror lumbered away from him, letting the failed dart thud to the ground “... _please... **help**_ -”

His vision went black, a sickening ‘ _ **CRACK!**_ ’ screaming in his ears as his neck snapped backwards.

And then...nothing.


	4. Affentine Matyrdom

Wolverine stared at the corpse, who’s head he’d just crunched his boot into. The body trembled a little, gargling as it shut down.  
He blinked slowly. Ran his tongue on his teeth, tasting copper. Put a burnt hand to his forehead, roughly rubbing his burning temples with his forefinger and thumb. Shoulders slumped with a grunt and he put his other hand on his hip. His eyes felt like they were shrivelled and dried-out like fish out of water.  
A groan escaped him as he assessed his physical appearance. His uniform - the attire that labelled him as an X-Man - was completely charred; his left glove’s fingertips had fused to his nails, the metal tubes for his claws had melted slightly - only just losing their form - whilst the rest of the fabric had either burnt away or left a deep blue stain on the skin.  
He peeled off the glove’s remnants as he walked away from the damned building with the damned corpse, grinding his teeth together and squeezing his eyes shut. Dropping the useless gauntlet to the ground, a question slammed right into his squamosal suture.

‘ _Where..._ ’ he thought, head ringing ‘ _...Where the hell am I?_ ’

Wolverine dizzily glanced around, stumbling slightly.  
The sun was slowly sinking beyond the sandy-dirt-sprinkled horizon, its glow coating the warm, dry air with a faint, warm yellow hue. A waft of dust was ingrained into the plain. Far off, fifty-three-or-so miles South-West from where he stood, painted a slate grey line across the granular land.

‘ _Road_.’ He realised after a long pause. His skull suddenly pounded again, and his hands went to his head. _God_ , he could feel the scabby, inflamed flesh flaking off as his fingers dug into his scalp.

He swallowed, the vile taste of bile and blood sticking to his tongue, and started to shakily stagger towards the roadway. His left foot - barefoot, the boot that covered it having been lost - was irritatingly sore, the tiny stones of the desert digging into the swollen blotches that were still healing. But he kept walking.

He _wouldn’t_ stop.

He didn’t need help.

* * *

“I’ll do it.” Logan said, tapping his fingers against the cold grey table, plastering a mask of apathy onto his face. The meeting room was silent, except for the quiet hum of the air conditioner. Everybody stared at him.

“...this is not the time for jokes, Wolverine.” warned Scott, eventually. His red visor glinted.

  
Logan reclined in his chair, avoiding the wide eyes of the X-Men, and grunted “Who the _hell_ said I was _jokin’_ , Cyke?” he scratched the back of his neck with his left hand “Look, bub, I’ll go to the ‘ _central-power-generator_ ’-thing or whatever the hell it was, with that bomb, turn it on, all that _shit_. Sentinel Factory goes ‘ _boom_ ’. What’s there to joke about?”

He leant forward, glaring intimidatingly at Scott - hands uneasily fiddling with his dog tags, completely hidden under his jacket. Grinding his teeth as he held the stare, as if he were daring Scott into disagreeing.

‘ _Come **on** , pretty boy, take your shot_.’ he thought, almost pleadingly ‘ _You **know** you **want** to_.’

  
“ _Fine_ , Logan…” Summers sighed, turning to Mccoy as if he hadn’t just sentenced Logan to a painful ‘ _death_ ’ “Hank, how long w-”

  
Remy, who’d been quietly standing in the corner of the room, stepped forward and put up his hands in a ‘ _stop everything_ ’ motion.  
“ _With you still inside_?” he exclaimed in disbelief, switching his glare from Scott to Logan, arms crossed in an X shape before he let them fall to his sides - in a gesture that could be simply put as ‘ _no way in hell are you doing that_ ’ “ _Pshaw!_ _Bon ami_ , you can’t be serious.”

  
“What’s it to you, Gumbo?” Logan scoffed, his ticker suddenly skipping beats.

_‘Please shut up, LeBeau, don’t make this harder.’_

Remy scowled, and Logan almost flinched.  
He could smell... _desperation_. It was coming off him in waves, mingled with...another feeling, that Logan was sure he’d misinterpreted.

“Gambit’s just saying there must be a better way, one that doesn’t involve…” he rubbed his throat and licked his dry lips “... _martyrdom_.” Remy murmured the last word, and turned his head towards Scott.

Logan swore he noticed his face go a shade redder than before.

  
“Gambit, unless you want to take Wolverine’s place-” Summers ordered sharply “-then I’d suggest you be _quiet_ while I discuss plans with Beast.”

LeBeau’s shoulders slumped. He opened his mouth as if to respond, before closing it with a grunt and storming out of the room.

Logan stifled a relieved sigh and closed his eyes. All he had to do was go in with the bomb, turn it on, and just persevere through the pain of the explosion itself, and the consequential healing. Then he’d go back to the mansion, and pretend like nothing ever happened.

If he were to pinpoint when everything had begun to go to shit, he’d choose his birth if he remembered when that was.  
If he were to pinpoint when everything had begun to go to shit - when limited to the past few months - it’d be when Remy had decided to stay behind to convince Logan to escape with him.

“What are _you_ doing here?!” Wolverine glared at him, holding the heavy bomb in his shaky hands. The hallway to the central power generator was thin and cold, and Gambit - like an idiot - had followed him down there.

  
“I’m _not_ leaving you!” Gambit’s face was white, his expression one of raging desperation, teeth gritted “ _Wolverine_ \- I don’t _care_ what Cyclops says, you aren’t trappin’ yerself here while the factory explodes!”

  
“Just run, LeBeau, we _don’t_ have _time_ for this!” He snarled, waving him away with his left hand “ _Get the hell outta’ here!_ ”

  
“ _No!_ Just leave the bomb here and come with Gambit, _please!_ Stop doin’ this to yerself, Logan!”

  
Wolverine could feel that all-too-familiar rage building up again “ ** _Go…_** ” he bit out “ _ **...now.**_ ”

  
He stepped towards him, offering his hand “Let Gambit help you!”

  
“ _ **I SAID GET OUTTA’ HERE CAJUN!**_ ” Wolverine roared, jerkily snapping Gambit’s outstretched limb away “ _ **I DON’T NEED HELP!**_ ”

  
A horrible second or two passed, as Gambit stood, trembling, cradling the arm that he’d offered in aid as if it hurt. It probably did - in more ways than just physical.

Then, he sharply turned and sprinted down the hall.  
Wolverine ignored the growing hole of guilt in his stomach as he darted in the opposite direction.

‘ _I can make it up to him when this whole thing’s over,_ ’ he hoped as he punched in the bomb’s activation code on the keypad ‘ _Everything’ll go back to normal, like it always does._ ’

* * *

Wolverine’s heart sank as a horrible question unravelled and presented itself; a possibility he’d been avoiding like the plague in between bouts of being so high off his ass that he’d thought spitting at his captor was a wonderful idea:

_‘Did Gambit make it out okay?’_

  
His walking speed quickened.

  
_‘Did he make it out alive?’_   
**_‘Shut up.’_ **   
_‘Does he know I’m alive?’_   
**_‘Shut up.’_ **   
_‘Do any of them know I’m alive?’_   
**_‘Shut up.’_ **   
_‘Did they replace me? How long was I gone? What day is it? What year is it?’_

**~~_‘Did Gambit make it out alive?’_ ~~ **

Wolverine whimpered, and he grimaced at the pathetic noise.

The wine-dyed night was embroidered with stars, and the waxing-crescent moon hung limply in the heavens, almost mocking him with its lazed demeanour as he dragged himself across the chilled asphalt that pricked unhealed wounds on his feet. A stench of sand intermingled with old blood clung to his nose. Through the agonising headache, he could hear the soft wind, his annoyingly slow footsteps, and car engines.  
Wait, what?

Wolverine spun around, swearing under his breath, half out of surprise and half out of pain. Two lights, awfully bright, were speedily approaching from the horizon.  
He waved - he didn’t think they’d stop, but it was worth a shot; he didn’t really care at this point, he just wanted to go home - he wanted to know if Gambit was okay- _that he was **alive**_ , he wanted to let him know he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant to hurt him, that he appreciated his want to help, I’ _m sorry I’m sor **ry I’m so ~~rry I’m sorry-~~**_

A merlot-painted truck squeaked as it stopped in front of him. Wolverine blinked. They...actually _stopped_. Now it was just a matter of convincing them to give him a ride.

The driver rolled the window down, an East-Asian man in his early twenties, and stared at him in concerned shock. Wolverine offered the guy a forced smile, before remembering that people usually were scared shitless of him when he did that - in no small part to the fact that he had metal teeth that were dangerously sharp, and he dropped the grin. The driver frowned, his grip tightened on the wheel. He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the rearview mirror, and he cringed - he looked like the decaying corpse of Teen Wolf’s Scott Howard if the guy ended up homeless and chargrilled like an amatuer chef’s first attempt at a burger.  
Wolverine cleared his throat, and attempted a smile again.

“How much would I haveta’ pay you to drive a guy to New York?”


	5. Who doesn't like a van ride?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, my apologies.

Head pounding, Wolverine grinded his teeth against the frigidity of the van’s interior. He was making a conscious effort to still have his noggin rested on the leather headrest, as when he first got in his head wouldn’t stop rhythmically thudding against the window due to how difficult it was to keep it balanced. Another shiver wracked through him, and he tightly wrapped his arms around himself.

“Are you cold?” the driver asked, nervously glancing over.

“ _M’fine_ ,” Wolverine murmured, slightly loosening his arms “Jus’ a lil’ chilly, is all.”

The driver’s left hand hovered over the temperature knob on the dashboard - it faltered. Wolverine squinted at the red LED numbers, which read:

_**25℃** _

“...I think yer’ heatin’s broken, bub.” Wolverine said, closing his eyes against the pounding in his skull.

“That shouldn’t be pos-possible - this truck is rather new, my husband got it just a few-”

Wolverine opened his mouth to interrupt, but the words froze on his tongue as his muscles constricted and he instinctively curled inward, bringing his knees slightly up to his chest, teeth chattering.

“Do you want me to drop you off at a hospital?”

“N-N-N-No-No,” he gargled, jerking his head up and glaring out of the almost-black side window, where highway blurred into highway and the only lightsource was dingy lampposts and the glowing eyes of cars “...how _flamin_ ’ far are we from...how far are we from New York, I can tell you whereta’ drop me off, from-from there. I can tell you whereta’ drop me off from there.”

“About...half an hour?”

‘ _Fuck_.’ Wolverine screwed his eyes shut again ‘ _Fuckity-fuck_.’

“...aight’-” he said after a pause, forcing his voice to be clearer so the driver could hear him “-so, where you need to go is…”

* * *

  
“Are you sure that... _this_ is where you want me to leave you?”

Wolverine turned the van door handle, leant against it, and fell out of the van in one motion, landing with a ‘THUMP’ onto the cold asphalt just outside. The driver sat in shock for a few moments, before reaching for the buckle on his seatbelt.

“...M’fine…!” Wolverine groaned from outside “...I...I can walk from ‘ere…”

The driver watched as his passenger shakily stood, turning to face him, breathing a little too heavily.

“ _Pay...back_ …? Cheque.” he said, shuddering “By next...month, by next month, you’ll get a cheque. You’ll know who it’s from. Thanks - a cheque, from me. Next month. You’ll know.”

He got a slow nod in response. Good enough. Wolverine slammed the door shut, and stared at the van as it sped off down the wood-surrounded road and into the night.

Shivering profusely, and suddenly feeling very nauseous, he turned around, and began to stagger down the road to the X-Mansion.


	6. Breakfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this is short, and not too great.

Eyelids fluttering open, Logan realised he was _baking_ beneath the coarse bed sheets. The folds of the fabric were sealed in the folds of his flesh. His mouth felt parched, yet his tongue was drowning in an icy swamp that tasted bitterly acrid. Hair plastered to his forehead, he groaned as he pushed himself upright, licking his dry lips and peeling off the covers from his body; inhaled the balmy musk of his room and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. The second his bare feet made contact with the wooden floor, a shudder broke through his soma, knocking forward a yelp from his tight throat. Shrinking in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest, making a gargled sound of shock as his entire frame convulsed.  
When the chill abruptly subsided, he fell back onto the bed, letting his stocky legs go limp and hang over the edge, rubbing the sleep out of his face with both of his palms.  
The mattress felt...wet.  
Logan removed his hands from his visage before propping himself up with his elbows and twisting his body to examine where he had been laying seconds before.

  
“... ** _eurgh_** …” he croaked, frowning and squinting in disgust at the large, Logan-shaped damp stain on the mattress. He shivered again.  
With a grunt, Logan shakily got to his feet, eyes screwed shut against the sudden achy pain in his bones. To be fair, the pain was always there, but it just seemed worse that morning, for whatever reason. He ran a hand through his hair, gritting his teeth and cringing at how wet it felt, before taking a deep breath and staggering over to the wooden chest of drawers that contained his clothes.  
He pulled out one of his white tank tops and a pair of jeans.  
It took him a little longer than usual to get them on, which he didn’t seem to notice. What he did notice, however, was how - when he looked down at his waist - the jeans seemed to be _larger_ than he remembered, or at least they had a wider girth than what he was used to.  
Logan’s stomach growled - painfully. He bent over and wrapped his arms around his abdomen...but he was pretty damn sure his ribs had never been that easy to feel. Pulling up his once tight - but now oddly loose shirt, he experimentally placed his left forefinger against where he felt the left side of his rib cage end. Without thinking, he hooked his finger upward.  
It went under the rib cage with ease.  
He staggered, again, quickly rolling down his shirt, hissing at the sudden wave of nausea that hit him. His clothes were hanging off him, like that time he accidentally wore one of Hank’s jumpers.  
Logan froze, before hastily grabbing a large black hoodie from his dresser to cloak his diminished frame.  
If McCoy found out, if McCoy saw him like this...he’d be done for. He’d be stuck in the med bay for days. God - if any of the students saw him like this, saw their mentor, the invincible Wolverine like...this…  
...if Remy saw him…  
With a growl, Logan stormed out of his room, letting the light-headed daze that was still in his head shove the rest of those thoughts to the very back of his mind.  
It wasn’t like he’d planned telling anyone, anyway.

* * *

Jubilation Lee sat, pouting, in her Care Bear-patterned pyjamas, idly twirling her breakfast - a pink plastic bowl of Froot Loops - in a clockwise movement with her spoon held between her right ring finger and thumb; her head rest against her left elbow which was leaning on the cool, yellow kitchen table  
The morning was humid, as mornings commonly are after cold nights, and the kitchen was comfortably chilly amid the airless outdoors. A faint antiseptic smell lazily rested on the atmosphere as the distant sounds of the other residents of the mansion tickled the edges of her ears.  
She sighed a sigh bigger than herself, and undoubtedly bigger than who she missed.

  
“Jubilee, come on-” said Scott Summers, wearing blue-striped pj trousers and no shirt, closing the fridge door and turning to face her, shaking his head “-Wolverine has been gone for _much_ longer intervals than this previously.”

  
“But this is taking _forever!_ ” She whined, abruptly sitting upright before pushing her cereal a few centimeters away from her with her left hand “I don’t understand why you had to leave him behind!”

  
“We couldn’t stay long, we had to get out of there before the police arrived.” Scott adjusted his ruby quartz glasses slightly “Heck, I even asked Angel several times to scour the place.” He shrugged, turning around and opening one of the higher cabinet doors, grabbing a glass before closing it “He found nothing.” Scott turned the tap on, a wet hum echoing out, filling the glass with water before turning it off “Wolverine’s probably off at some bar or motel, wallowing, not caring about anybody but himse-”

  
“ _Cyclops_ -” spoke a voice that was tranquil like rain but could roar like thunder, which belonged to the woman whose hair was like clouds; who leaned against the doorframe to Jubilee’s right - a stony expression on her face “-I will have to ask you to stop, immediately. The girl is simply missing her friend, and it is quite inconsiderate of you to dismiss her feelings.”

  
Jubilee smiled, “Good morning, Storm.” 

Ororo Munroe wore a black silk robe, her hair tied back to prevent unnecessary entanglement while sleeping.  
Walking over to the kettle, Ororo nodded, “Good morning.” She paused, glancing over at Jubilee’s breakfast “I would finish your meal soon, child, before it becomes soup.”  
Jubilation sighed again, assuming her original position.

  
Scott cleared his throat, regaining his composure “Any news on Gambit’s current location, Storm?” He asked, taking a swig of his water.

“He’s safe, Cyclops.” she said, refilling the kettle “He has merely gone to ‘ _let off some steam’_ , as he put it.”

  
“Do we know where he is?”

  
“He has gone back to New Orleans.”

  
“Does he plan on coming back soon?”

  
“He does not know how long he will stay there.”

  
Scott mumbled something under his breath. Ororo shot a glare at him, before turning to Jubilee.  
“Do not worry, Jubilation, I am certain that both of our teammates will return soon.” She gave her a beautiful smile “In fact, later today I will search the remnants of the Sentinel Factory myself-”

  
“ _No need_.” Scott said quietly, staring at the door frame behind Ororo.  
Jubilee squealed.

Wolverine had come home.


	7. Something might be wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, apologies.  
> There may be another fic soon - just a simple one shot, so I can take a break from just writing this; be nice to have some variety.

Ororo Munroe was not one for vulgar language. In her opinion, there were many vocables in the multitudinous lexicons of language to be utilised to suit the infinitesimal needs and wants of whomever the speaker happened to be, and what they wished to articulate. However, some of her teammates - like Logan - found articulating their intricate thoughts or emotions to be abundantly and fruitlessly arduous; but that had their merits, as sometimes one can only rely on the simplest form of truth - this was one of those circumstances.  
There was many an adjective to describe how Logan appeared that morning, after his lengthy disappearance.  
But, as he would put it, Wolverine looked like shit.

Jubilee didn’t seem to notice, though, as she ran up to him and hugged him with a big smile on her face. He stumbled back slightly, eyebrows raised and his mouth slightly open. Ororo heard Scott huff from behind her, but she paid it no mind.

There was something wrong with Logan.

His lips were dry, cheeks rosy, black hair soaked, eyes red-rimmed…

...something was very, _very wrong_.

“ _Wolvie!_ ” Jubilee squealed, nuzzling her head into his chest “I missed you _soooo_ _much_!”

Logan let out a hoarse chuckle “I missed you, too.” he said softly, running a trembling right hand through her hair. He let his hand fall back to his side as Jubilee pulled away from the hug, folding her arms and pouting slightly in mock anger, yet being unable to suppress a grin that kept briefly flickering onto her face.

“What took you so-” Jubilation stopped, frowning as she seemingly noticed Logan's pallid and peaky appearance for the first time. He stared back at her, small smile fading. Turning to face Ororo and Scott, he besmeared that signature scowl upon his visage.

“‘Ro, Slim,” he greeted, adjusting his jeans with his left hand (were they usually _this_ loose?), teeth chattering a little “D-di-id I miss anythin’?”

“It is good to see you too, Wolverine,” Ororo said, raising an eyebrow; she turned back to the kitchen counter, setting the kettle on its stove and clicking it on “Kitty has discovered a forgotten janitor’s closet in the second floor of the west wing. Peter ‘ _convinced_ ’ Kurt to watch _The Exorcist_ and now Kurt refuses to speak to him, though he will not admit it.”  
While she spoke, Ororo watched Logan from the corner of her eye. He lurched towards one of the kitchen cabinets and thrust it open - at the sight of the food, his stomach gurgled, half a noisy beg for nourishment and half a sickly prayer to withhold from eating - Ororo realised when she heard a quiet retch escape Logan as he shuddered.

Jubilee, uncomfortable, hastily shuffled out of the kitchen, leaving her soggy cereal on the table.

“Deadpool got his 6969th restraining order last Tuesday,” she continued, watching Logan shut the cabinet door “He’s been celebrating ever since. He was disappointed when I informed him that you were currently MIA, and he offered to help us search, but Cyclops declined.”

“He’s a _lunatic_ , Storm.” Scott argued, taking a final swig of his water and setting it down on the kitchen counter “You can’t trust some who’s _that_ immature.” And with that, he left the room as well. Ororo heard the smooth ‘clack’ of the refrigerator door opening.

“Tha-tha-that was nice of him,” Logan stammered as he grabbed something that Ororo couldn’t see from out of the fridge before closing it and staggering over to the table, clumsily taking a seat, nearly falling over in the process.

‘ ** _SNIKT_** ’, Logan popped his right-hand’s middle claw with a wince, and-

“ _Wolverine,_ ” Ororo warned, hearing the kettle ‘ _ding_ ’ to notify her it was finished boiling “I do not believe it is wise to drink alcoholic beverages without eating first, especially with your current-”

Logan abruptly convulsed, his head jerked forward, his right shoulder crunched into the side of his face; a guttural howl ruptured from his craw and he swiftly gripped the edge of the table, his body shaking violently. The beer can fell to the ground with a clatter.

Ororo gasped and rushed forward, but Logan shakily waved her away. She grabbed his shoulder, but immediately yanked it back with a pained cry.

His skin burned, like there was lava in his veins. She stepped back, bumping into the kitchen counter, eyes wide.

“I’m jus’ cold, ‘Ro, I’m jus’ a lil’ cold, s’all!” Logan slurred, teeth grinding against each other as he unsteadily reached down to grab the fallen can “Is n-n-noth-nothin’ a lil’ drink can’t fix.”

Shivering, Logan sliced open the can before retracting his claw, and took a swig.


	8. James Bad Descisions Logan Howlett

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very, very short chapter. I'm very sorry that I have not been updating frequently, if at all. I could list off a billion excuses why, but then that would make this note longer than the chapter itself.  
> I can't say I will be updating more frequently. Maybe you'll see another story on here, so Un-Invincible isn't the only thing I'm working on.  
> But I'll try not to abandon this story.  
> I'm very sorry, please stay safe.

  
“ _ **HUARGHK-**_ ” Logan shouted, slamming the can on the table and slapping his left hand over his mouth as he fell into a coughing fit, with intervals of retching “ _HIK- **KH** H_-” his body seized up right after he turned away from Ororo.

Before she could react, he relaxed his posture and took his palm away from his face, still not facing her. Logan staggered to his feet and stumbled towards the exit like he was heavily intoxicated, mumbling something about just needing a shower.  
“Wolverine, no!” Ororo stepped forward and grabbed Logan’s shirt, gasping in disgust at how damp it felt under her fingers. She recoiled, watching Logan drunkenly make his way out of the room with a numb dread.


	9. Don't drop the soap!

The trip to the bathroom was a blur, a mess of doors and the occasional out-of-focus shocked bystander.

He slammed the door shut and leant against it, his feet sliding on the chilly cream-tiled floor as his shaky hands gripped the door knob for support, reddened right cheek pressed against the cool wooden surface. His chest heaved. Was running always this exhausting, or was he just out of shape?

It didn’t matter. A shower would fix things. A nice, hot shower.

  
Logan peeled off all his clothes and threw the damp garments to the floor, which made a ‘splat’ on contact. An abrupt wave of nausea crashed over him and he bent over, arms wrapped around his shrunken stomach; eyes screwed shut. His brain felt like it had grown sharp spikes and was bouncing against his skull with every movement.

  
He gritted his teeth and forced himself to straighten - his spine crackled in reluctant pain.

  
“ _ **GHK-!**_ ” Logan choked, staggering. A scorching cold chill wracked him. It was like his insides were shedding, and the old skin was filling up his lungs, his stomach; entangling his wiry veins and cutting off the blood flow. Eyeballs were freezing over, adamantium bones melting and dripping out of his skin.

  
When did he end up on the floor?

  
Logan painstakingly crawled to the shower, blindly pressing the buttons to turn on the water. Hot droplets ran down his clammy skin, and only a small part of his brain told him to be embarrassed when he half-whimpered, half-moaned in satisfaction as he let the steam warm him.  
Closing his eyes, thoughts softened, dissipated into a thick fog that numbed his senses. Something was calling a name somewhere. He mumbled intelligibly as he attempted to remember his own name, but stopped as he opened his eyes and forgot what he had been doing as cream-coloured-swirls filled his vision. Any memory of what he had done that morning may as well have become part of the steam that surrounded him.  
His eye lids grew heavy, and a delirious giggle bubbled out of his throat as his whole soma went insensate.  
The swirling world went dark, and he barely registered the crunching stab in the back of his head and his rump before everything mollified into a comforting nothing.


	10. Found

“Wolvie?” Jubilee called out, knocking on the door again, holding a pink and yellow toothbrush in her left hand “Wolvie? Hurry _up_ , it doesn’t take _that_ long to shower! I really need to brush my teeth, and all the other bathrooms are either full, or the drains are clogged!”  
Half a minute passed with no response, only the faint sound of the shower running. Not even any sound of splashing to indicate movement.

  
Logan was probably brooding again.

  
She groaned and quickly looked around to see if anyone was coming down the hallway.

  
“ _Fine_ , have it your way!” she announced “I’m not gonna let your _angst-ing_ get in the way of my dental hygiene!”

  
Jubilee grabbed the doorknob and was surprised to see that Logan had not locked the door behind him.  
She swung the door open, and immediately held her breath as the immense heat blew in her face. Jubilee wiped the sweat from her brow and when her eyes fell upon the shower, she screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted a quick X-Men one-shot before this, so you can read that if you wish.


	11. Blitzed Flashback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this takes so long

“Where is your organisation based?” barked a man in ill-fitting protective gear, glaring at Logan, who was slumped on the floor, too doped to move. His right cheek and both his knees were pressed against the cold ground, tied-up arms between his legs.  
His left eye’s lids fluttered.

  
“... _whuhh...Whassat_ ’?” he murmured, attempting to look up at whoever was speaking with his open left eye, but everything was too muddled and blurry for him to recognise anything “... _who’sh sh’peakin’_?” This didn’t smell like the mansion.

  
Logan felt a dull pain tap his ribs, as if he’d been roughly nudged.

  
“You heard me, runt,” the man spat, circling him “Where is your little freak-show based? You tell us that, and we’ll let you go.”

  
He didn’t remember anything past...an explosion. Something about Gambit, there was something about Gambit…  
Logan’s mind fished from his memory a whirl of comforting colour, chocolate brown hair and magenta eyes, a voice with a thick accent tickling his ear, the smell of leather and expensive (stolen) aftershave - all sensations very, very faint, and the alleviation that it brought was momentary as a boot slammed itself into the middle of the hazy hologram.

  
“ _ **Urghh-?!**_ ” Logan expected the kick to his forehead would wake him up a little - it didn’t. It just shook his head’s contents up like a blender.  
What happened? He’d been thinking about something, thinking - Gambit. And then...something kicked him. Kicked. Gambit. Gambit kicked him...why? He’d hurt...Logan had hurt Gambit. Gambit kicked him, because Logan hurt him

  
“... _Rrrrrrrremy? Szzz’that you?_ ” _**He’d hurt him**_ “ _M’sorry, m’really sorry, didn’ wan’ you t’get hurt, s’all…_ ”

  
“For fuck’s sake-” Logan heard a click “-tell Hibbert we can’t interrogate him now, over...he ordered for too much damn tranq! The fucker can’t understand a single-well, shit, maybe you sho-yes? ...alright...fine, I’ll do it, over n’out.”

  
A sigh.

  
“... _rrrremmb-y?_ ” Logan groaned, curling up slightly “.. _.I can’t...can’t see…hurts bad...m’really sorr_ -”  
Pain exploded across his forehead, and he fell back into uneasy oblivion.


	12. N/A

Hello, and first of all, I offer you my apologies for practically abandoning this story.  
Second of all, I have some bad news: all my W.I.Ps have been deleted.   
I was an absolute moron and did not save any backups, and when I had to wipe my history (because apparently that was why online schooling wasn't working - which makes no sense to be honest) everything was deleted.  
I'm sorry for letting you guys down. I don't know when the next chapter will be, or if there will be any new stories to compensate for my lack of updating this one.  
I am really sorry.


End file.
